Who’s Going to Save the Black Woman

Who’s going to save the black woman
as sour droplets of water stream down
from her forehead and eyes
dampening her curvaceous body
making her toughened skin
smooth like a wet chamois?
Now it is easier to bruise
but she continues
unrelenting
trying to rescue the black man
from the seemingly endless pit
of the white hole –
a never ending struggle
accompanied by never ending pain –
and though her lips are blistered
from kissing his wounds
she continues
unrelenting
trying to rescue the black man.

Who’s going to understand the black woman
when she gazes lovingly at the black man
and he turns away abruptly
dissatisfied
because her hair is curly at the roots
and her complexion complements the earth?
He sees her voluptuous lips
breasts like melons and creamy thighs
as candy
sweet to chew and fun to let the tongue
sop up the juicy middle
and when she fails to believe
she’s more than that
and her esteem borders on nonexistent
and she feels unworthy of
the warm blood that flows
through her overworked shell,
who’s going to understand the black woman?

Who’s going to appreciate the black woman
when she’s finally met everyone’s needs
and she’s tired?

*

Who’s going to save the black woman?
Along with everything else –
her family, her community, the world –
the black woman must save herself.

~1991~

* There’s a missing piece here. Sadly, I have forgotten it, but I may revisit the poem at some point and recreate what is lost.